


Overleveraged

by Mrs_Stiltskin (Lady_Belles_Teacup)



Series: Changing the Stars [2]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Dom/sub, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Light BDSM, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Pegging, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rumbelle Secret Santa 2016, Shameless Smut, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-05
Updated: 2018-04-05
Packaged: 2019-04-18 17:23:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14218035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lady_Belles_Teacup/pseuds/Mrs_Stiltskin
Summary: Rumplestiltskin has become the man that Belle always hoped he could, the one to wield dark magic to do good. But all magic comes with a price, and Belle is the only one who understands exactly what price he must pay.Rumbelle Secret Santa 2016Santee: 13CalliebPrompt: Heroes and Villains Storybook ReimaginingWarnings for mild BDSM, Spanking and Pegging. This one was a challenge, love! But I hope you enjoy the fruition...Merry Rumbellemas!





	Overleveraged

Rumplestiltskin’s pearl grey steed crashed through thick underbrush, flying with the practiced ease of a jumper over a deep ravine, the murmur of water rising from far below. Together they raced headlong, clattering into the dilapidated village, a flurry of hoofbeats, golden armour gleaming in the sunlight, white magic swirling from the great wizard’s fingertips. The rampaging ogre crashed to the ground mid-strike, bellowing loudly and dissipating into a puff of fine dust that coated the cringing faces of the frightened townsfolk. They coughed and hacked and scurried into their hovels, peering from behind cracked doors and drawn curtains as the wizard slid from his horse and bent to examine the remains of the miserable creature.

The Dark One sifted through the pile of dust, stooping and running his fingers through the powdery ash until he uncovered a gleaming medallion. He examined it carefully, noting the crest of the robber baron, Bo Peep, before slipping it into a pouch at his hip. As he stood up and looked around, surveying the damage done, doors clicked shut and suspicious eyes disappeared from behind swishing curtains. Silence hung heavy in the market square, broken stalls and overturned carts of produce lay strewn about. The literal fruits of the poor villagers’ labor trampled and ruined by the ogre’s rampage. In one corner, a pair of unmoving feet stuck out at odd angles from beneath the rubble of a woodcarver’s stall.   


Rumplestiltskin shook his head, his brow furrowed and his shoulders heavy. He lifted his hands and magic swirled and spiraled around him, golden tendrils that glowed in the light of the setting sun reaching out and righting overturned carts, rebuilding shattered stalls. He stood like a conductor, his hands moving gently in patterns through the air, the magic obeying his every intention. Fruits and vegetables restacked themselves neatly, goods and wares of all kinds flew through the air, finding their proper places on perfectly reformed shelves. 

Only one thing he could not fix. Amidst the whirlwind of activity, the still body of an old man floated. The magic plucked at him, straightening his torn clothing and smoothing his ruffled hair. When the magic settled, the dust was blown away and market put to rights, everything exactly as it was before, except for the body of the woodcarver laid out with dignity in a fine casket of polished cherry. 

The door of the largest hovel creaked open and a trembling figure emerged from the shadows. “Dark One,” the old man squeaked, looking only at the pointed toes of Rumplestiltskin’s boots, “what payment do you require for your assistance?” The man’s body quaked with fear, his knees practically knocking together as he stood before the leather clad and cloaked figure of the wizard, his golden breastplate casting a warm glow across the man’s bald pate. “We are poor folk with nothing of value to a great wizard such as yourself,” he fell to his knees and wailed, “and only one newborn babe has survived this winter and he is my own grandson. Mercy, Lord!”

But Rumplestiltskin threw back his hood, revealing the ordinary figure of a middle-aged man, his straight brown hair riffling gently in the breeze and his clear brown eyes troubled. “I charge no fee or tribute for my protection,” he took a step toward the man who prostrated himself, shaking like a leaf about to fall from a tree. He stopped, “Only be well, fortify your village as best you can, and be kind and generous in your dealings with others.” 

The man did not move or lift his eyes, “Yes, my lord.”

“I am not a lord,” Rumplestiltskin insisted, his voice quiet and sad. “Only a man who wanted to save my son from the Ogres War...and failed.”   


The wizard paused only a few heartbeats before whistling for his steed, mounting swiftly and riding out without a backwards glance at the silent square or the still body of the woodcarver and the village elder still prostrate with his face in the dust. Not one other villager emerged to thank him or see off the hero that saved their lives and their livelihoods. All remained behind their closed doors, afraid of the power of the Dark One.

He understood. He had spent centuries as the green and gold scaled monster who dealt mercilessly with any who required his assistance. He had never dealt for simple wealth, gold meaning nothing to a man who could spin it from mere straw. No, Rumplestiltskin had always demanded a true price from the most desperate of souls, the thing most precious was the only currency he bartered in. Until Belle.

Belle had broken his curse with True Love’s Kiss, sort of. He was still The Dark One, but now he looked like an ordinary man. An ordinary man with extraordinary powers, dark magic turned to good with the ultimate magic of True Love. She had tamed the Beast with her own extraordinary powers. She was his bellwether, his true north. 

He understood, but it still hurt that no one would look him in the eye or appreciate the price he paid for their safety and comfort. He never received thanks or praise for his good deeds. Only whispered suspicions that he would steal their babes from the cradle under cover of night. If only they knew it was his own mother who did such deeds, Black Fairy who left the changeling children. Or his father who stole the ones who his mother left alone, the Pied Piper, the Pan. No, they would only fear him more. Where they should feel sorrow for him, abandoned as a child by his wicked parents, he only ever garnered fear and loathing. 

He galloped headlong and heedless of everything but getting home. Pain and resentment blossomed in his chest, anger arose in his gorge as the magic battered him from within, demanding its price. The Dark One resented every good deed, every person saved, every breath not spent making mischief. It was anathema to it, and it exacted its toll on the man Rumplestiltskin had become. Hero and Villain compressed into the same space, an impossibility that he was required to resolve every waking moment. Sometimes it was almost more than he could bear.

By the time he came to his door, he could barely control the darkness that raged inside him. He wanted to kill, to murder and rampage, but instead he reached out his hand and opened the door to his castle, stumbling blindly into the great hall and collapsing at the feet of the only creature capable of controlling him in this state. The only words he could utter a desperate prayer, “Mistress, please!”

Belle stood before the fire, resplendent in a gown of yellow silk that hugged her curves, her chestnut curls cascading over her shoulders and wreathing her face  like a wild flame. She took one look at her husband tumbling out of control and knew at once what was required. She alone could tame the Beast and exact the price of all the magic given freely to help others. She approached him with confidence, though he practically snarled at her, and scurried back, averting his eyes.

She turned her back on him and felt his dark aura surround her, but she pushed it back with ease. She strode to the corner and carefully perused a selection of canes and whips of various thicknesses and materials, finally selecting one of bamboo and testing its flexibility in her hands. Satisfied, she tapped it against her palm, “Assume the required position,” she commanded without turning. The Dark One wanted to tear her apart and she knew it, but she could show no fear, indeed she did not fear the entity that inhabited her husband. She knew its name, and its weaknesses.

When she finally turned, he was kneeling in the center of the room, his hands behind his back, but his expression defiant. Belle knew Rumplestiltskin fought to obey her.

“Rumplestiltskin,” she spoke with authority and watched his lip curl in disdain, “give me your hand.” She held out her own, palm up, and held his eyes, her expression neutral and calm. He shook with the effort of placing his hand in hers, uncurling his fingers ever so slowly, his eyes narrowed. As soon as his hand was open, she brought the cane down across his open palm with a sharp crack. 

His eyes flew wide, and he cried out, flinching, fire coursing through his hand and arm. But he forced himself to stay still, his open hand awaiting his Mistress’ ministrations.

“Silence!” Belle barked. She brought the cane down again and he shook with the effort of being still and quiet. A third crack and his breathing changed, deepening. A fourth and his shoulders began to relax, his eyes to lose focus. He didn’t even flinch at the fifth or sixth blow, his palm crisscrossed with angry red welts, but his breathing even and trance-like.

Belle took a deep breath, exhaling slowly and relaxing a bit herself. She knew the worst was over, the Dark One would not fight her punishment of its host. The Dark One revelled in the punishment of its host, accepting the pain as payment for the price of magic expended in the assistance of others. It was the only payment accepted. “Your other hand,” she demanded.

“Yes, Mistress.” He gave her his left hand, closing his eyes in anticipation of the searing pain, his breathing quickening, muscles quaking. Another blow landed and Rumplestiltskin moaned aloud, the next was harder, sharper, and he was silent, breathing hard through his nose. Three. Four. Again his breathing relaxed and his focus softened. Five. Six. Seven.

“What do you say?” Belle demanded, pressing the tip of the cane into his throat until he opened his eyes. She used it to lift his chin until his eyes met hers, the eyes of the Dark One still smouldering beneath the surface. He swayed a bit, but remained upright and calm. “I will not ask again,” her ice blue eyes flashed with anger, the cane biting into the soft skin beneath his chin.

“Thank you, Mistress.” He replied, gratitude coursing through him. He was utterly hers, and it was a magic of its own, the pain reaching through and pulling Rumplestiltskin up through the mire of the Dark One. “Thank you.”

He was pliant as she led him to the dungeon, removing his breastplate and each item of his clothing until he stood naked before her gaze. He was quiescent, though tension still played about his features, his shoulders taut, his energy coiled tight and ready to spring. She needed to break him. Shatter him into a thousand pieces and put him back together herself. 

Belle circled him, her eyes raking every inch of his exposed flesh. His thin arms hung by his sides, his ribs prominent, his flaccid penis long and dark against his pale thighs. His eyes were properly downcast, but she could feel his discomfort under her close examination, he wanted to cover himself, yet he did not. He felt her eyes slide over his firm buttocks, her lips quirking into a smile as they flexed under her gaze. 

“Bend over,” Belle commanded, “hands on your calves.”

The great wizard did as his wife ordered. The firm globes of his bottom parting and exposing his scrotum and puckered hole to her scrutiny. She ran the bamboo cane up the inside of his thighs, tapping gently on his sack, and he trembled in anticipation. Belle flicked his buttocks once, twice and she could feel him tighten. She pulled back the cane and let it snap forward against his balls. He gasped but did not cry out or flinch, his lower lip clenched between his teeth, a small grunt escaping. She snapped again harder and his sharp intake of breath told her that the pain was increasing. 

“Why do I hurt you, Rumplestiltskin?” Belle asked. She changed the cane for a leather crop. A sharp slap to his left cheek left a bright red wheal.

“Because I deserve it, Mistress,” He gasped as pain exploded once again in his scrotum. “The darkness makes me unworthy, but the pain cleanses me.”

“Are you cleansed?” Belle asked, the crop poised.

“No, Mistress.” His voice cracked.

“You need more?” She teased him with the crop, up the inside of his trembling thigh. Slap, slap slap against his tight balls, a little harder each time.

“Yes, Mistress. Please.” He was begging her now. She hit him hard and he cried out loudly. Again. Another cry. “Forgive me, Mistress, I’m sorry,” he sobbed.

“You may vocalize,” Belle soothed, even as she landed another sharp blow.

“Thank you, My Lady,” he groaned as she landed hard slaps to his flanks, to the tight globes of his ass and the backs of his thighs. He shook and moaned as the blows rained on. “Yes, please, Mistress,” he begged, his legs shaking. She wondered that he did not collapse, his buttocks and thighs were a hash of glowering welts, his breath coming in ragged gulps, his cock half erect.

Belle dipped the long, smooth handle of the crop into a pot of soothing oil, rubbing it over the surface. She slipped it between his cheeks, caressing his anus and spreading the oil over his puckered entrance.

“Relax, my love,” she cooed. He was still bent over holding his calves.

He closed his eyes, and moaned as she pressed the bulbous tip against his entrance. She placed her hand on his lower back and he opened up, the tip beginning to slide in. She teased it in and out, and he groaned, his legs buckling. 

“Stay still!” Belle ordered, the handle of her riding crop slipping in and out of him with shallow little thrusts. Only an inch or two, but he was open and gasping, his legs trembling so hard they would not hold him much longer.

He moaned, “Yes, Mistress, I am trying, I don’t think I can stay up.” His cock was fully erect and dripping clear fluid from the tip.

“Taste,” Belle ordered.  


He stroked his cock from root to tip. Taking some of the fluid on his fingers, he brought them to his lips and sucked them clean. She slipped the handle all the way out. She stepped out of her yellow gown and into a harness that wrapped around her hips, a large, erect cock jutting proudly from the front. She stroked it down with oil, paying particular attention to the thick, rounded head. He watched her with hooded eyes from between his own legs, licking his lips hungrily. She took Rumplestiltskin by the hips, running the tip up and down his crack. 

“How much do you want?” She asked him, the head pressing against his eager hole.

“All of it, Mistress.” He begged. Belle felt it slide in and kept pressing until the entire length was buried inside him. He collapsed to all fours with a gasp, and Belle followed him down, pulling out slightly and thrusting deep, pulling out and thrusting, her hips following her movements as though she were fucking him with her own cock.

“Oh, gods, please, Mistress.” He cried out pushing back against her to get her even deeper. Belle pulled out and and thrust the full length again and again, his buttocks slapping back against her thighs as she fucked him. She wrapped her fingers in his hair, pulling his head back as he writhed beneath her, begging her to fuck him harder. He sobbed as she took him, no longer resisting, impaled upon her mercy. His very being surrendering to her completely. 

He was quaking with need when she took the cock completely from him, denying him his release. She slipped it in again when he had calmed, and fucked him back to the edge. Again she denied him, waiting until his breathing slowed. She took him roughly, bending over his back, taking his cock in one hand and cupping his balls with the other, she stroked his length while she slammed into him. He was ready to break for her. She had wanted to fuck his sweet mouth for a while, gripping him by the hair and thrusting her cock down his throat until he gasped and choked and begged for her to let him come. But not today. He was too close, in a moment he would be shards falling like broken glass through her fingers whether she willed it or no.

Never once had he uttered their safeword. 

Her small hands pumped his cock, stroking him from root to tip the same way he would stroke himself, firmly and with purpose. Her oil slicked fingers moving the skin up, velvet soft around the rock hard core, slipping over the tip and back down again. The cock she wore plumbing his depths with every masterful thrust of her hips. She pulled his head back and whispered, “Do you wish to ask me something?”   


“Please, Mistress, may I come?” he sobbed, his body covered in sweat and trembling, the hard cock buried to the hilt in his ass, terrified she would deny him again.

“Yes, Rumple, come for me,” she cried as she thrust wildly, his buttocks rippling with every stroke. She gripped his cock and rode him until he cried out, coming hard, his cock pulsing and spurting into her hand. Belle held him, stroking gently, painting a smear of come across his stomach and chest, before he collapsed face down on the floor. Belle slipped out of him with a pop and he gasped and shivered but otherwise lay still, spent beyond words or thought. She slipped out of the harness and knelt beside him, stroking his long, soft hair until he sighed. Belle picked him up off the floor, leading him to a low couch covered with black velvet cushions.

Rumplestiltskin stood quietly as Belle washed him from head to toe with a warm cloth, kissing his lips, his shoulders, his chest. She knelt at his feet, cleansing every inch of his flesh as she had cleansed his spirit, caressing and pressing her lips to his thighs, the tops of his feet, the ropy scars that circled his once ruined ankle. She touched every mark she had left on his skin, soothing it with her warm breath while he stood silent, eyes closed.

Belle drew him onto the couch, draping him across her own naked form, pillowing his head between her breasts and stroking his hair, his shoulders. “You are beautiful, Rumplestiltskin,” Belle murmured, kissing the top of his head. He snuggled into her. “I love you.”

He lifted his face to gaze at her, his personal savior, “I love you, too, Belle. Thank you.” His tired eyes revealing only a hint of mischief, his grin sloppy. “I think perhaps you should be wary of me tomorrow. I hear payback can be quite the bitch,” he tweaked one of her nipples hard and she squeaked, tucking his head back between her breasts and holding him fast.

“I’m counting on it, Rumple,” she breathed into the top of his drowsing head, and smirking to herself. “I’m counting on it.” 


End file.
